Third Host: Excerpt, Amitiel

April 14, 2008

Amitiel limped his way through the storage containers further down the docks. The fence hadn’t slowed him more then a second or two. He gave a solid kick to a looser pole and it sagged. He pulled up the loose fence and ducked under, then worked the pole free. He settled it on his shoulder and started winding his way through toward the actual waterfront. A battered old transport ship waited tied to the dock.

He watched it for a long stretch. Nobody moved across the deck of the ship. Amitiel shook his head slightly and made his way to the walkway, continuing up slowly. He reached the deck of the ship and looked around. Two containers were chained to the deck. The detective crossed over to the first container, circled to the door, and promptly brought the end of the pipe down hard on the lock three quick times. The lock chewed up the pipe some, but fell away.

Amitiel pulled free the lock and threw it aside. The door creaked open to reveal crate after unmarked crate. He crossed to the nearest crate and smashed the boards on the side. Carefully packed guns spilled out. He shook his head and left the container.

One loud pop echoed through the night and Amitiel spun to the left, landing on one knee. The second pop sprouted red down the center of his back and pushed him to the ground just inside of the container. The large man shouldered his rifle and dropped off of the top of the wheel house and crossed over to give him a kick. Amitiel rolled over with the kick, revolver sliding free and firing once. The large man’s head snapped back, gore splattering outward as he tipped backwards and his the deck with a dull thud.

Amitiel hissed out a sharp breath and holstered his gun. He sat up and inspected the wounds as best he could. Both clean shots, making a mess of muscle and bone. Worse still, the entire outfit was a lost cause at this point. He let his head drop back against the container wall and shut his eyes for a moment. It would be easy if he was actually just another mortal trying to be a hero. He’d die, the bad guys would dump his body at see. Someone else would take over the operation he had smashed and life would go on.

Amitiel grimaced and pushed himself up, forcing mangled flesh to work. Truth was harsh, but it certainly didn’t die from a few simple gunshot wounds. He picked up the rifle and checked the man’s pockets. Keys. That might actually have been worth the unpleasantness of finishing out the night like this. He shouldered the rifle and started whistling as he crossed toward the next container. The rest of them would either be along shortly or would assume the big nasty man would handle the idiot clammering around the ship. Either way, he’d deal with it as it came.

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